The Perfect Role
by ko-drabbles
Summary: All dreams either die or come true. However, wishes can't be taken for granted, and are a lot trickier to handle. All he ever wanted was to be perfect. Black Swan AU. TW: PSYCHOSIS, EATING DISORDERS, VIOLENCE, SELF HARM, SUICIDE, BLOOD.


For as long as Kyoya could remember, his life had been pointe shoes and studios surrounded by mirrors. It was a bar, and a piano. It was plies and arabesques and pirouettes. It was cracking toes and watching what he ate and pains in his joints, but it was all worth it. Because he was a dancer, and he was beautiful.

Hence, the sight of the hot theatre lights beating down on him wasn't that odd, even if his movements were. He thought about everything, narrowing it down to perfect precision, and so to be almost pulled around like a rag doll was rather concerning. But it wasn't, not really. It was almost freeing, even if he couldn't smile. He moved gracefully, even as the turns were dizzying. He could feel another dancer behind him, always moving out of sight but in tandem, and it finally clicked.

The beautiful costume, the lights focussing on him, the hands he could feel on his arms and shoulders were black as the night. He was Odette, and behind him was Rothbart. It was the role every dancer dreamed of, the ill-fated princess cheated by love who, in death, was set free. A wonderful ballet with a beautiful score and amazing choreography.

Done to death, but he still remembered the feeling he felt as he sat in his father's lap, eyes trained on the ballerina who played the swan queen as she moved so gracefully. That was when he fell for ballet. He could still hear his father's chuckle as he announced, after the show, that he wanted to be just like the girl in the white tutu, black hair scraped back into a neat bun. Full of dreams and aspirations, not grounded by reality. His small, imperfect leaps seemed to send him into the air, even though they were anything but. Especially as he was a small, chubby five-year-old.

Waking up was both hazy and tiring for him, eyelids heavy and slightly confused from the stark cut from dancing to laying in his bed. It was a dream, he should have known. After all, why would he be dancing a role like that without an audition, or prior practice.

He groaned, throwing the fluffy, cream coloured pillow besides his bed onto the floor, fighting the urge to just roll over and go back to sleep. New season, new production, new roles. He couldn't miss it, no matter how tired he felt. Beyond his childhood fascination with ballet, there were other reasons why he stuck with it, and he couldn't allow himself to be lazy; a premier danseur is disciplined and committed.

Swinging his legs out of bed and sitting up, thinking that it would be easier to rip off the metaphorical band-aid, he had to blink hard to settle his vision. His head was swimming, and he could feel the hairs on his arms raise, shoulders quivering slightly in the cold of his room. It was meant to be spring, but it was still freezing. There was no point complaining, but he couldn't help but feel disappointed with the lack of warmth.

He cracked his toes before standing, the stiffness in the joints alleviating slightly with the series of pops. He had to get ready, stretch, then head down to the studio. Quick, for the most part. He just pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the bathroom, trying to be quiet in case his mother was still asleep.

The apartment was spacious, but there was always the paranoia that he'd step too quickly, too heavily and disturb her. Not that he didn't want to see his mother, but he would rather she rest herself, rather than rudely awake her. Bare feet with blue-tinted nails treaded lightly across the polished wood floors, the bathroom door shut slowly and silently, and he just… stared at himself in the mirror. God, he looked tired.

Nothing a little makeup and a smile wouldn't fix, however. He had to just… stay positive. He'd never get a good role if he let self-doubt cripple him.

He snatched the hair brush off the counter, dragging it through his tangled hair, so he had some hope of putting it up in a bun. Part of him wanted to cut it all off, but he liked the way it brushed against his shoulders, softening his masculine features. Long hair, a tiny waist and delicate features, making him ideal for the feminine roles.

One of the benefits of being in an all-male troupe, he supposed. He didn't have to settle for the part of the prince, he could play anything he wanted. Or, audition for. He loved the princess roles. The costumes were the best, the spotlight was on them, and they held themselves with such dignity. He just hadn't had the chance to be the lucky one – the talented one – yet; twenty third birthday looming and not a single main role to show for it.

But it was fine. He was confident, and he still had time.

He tossed his hair into a quick ponytail to practice, not feeling like struggling to put it in a bun yet, only for it to fall out before he even left the apartment. He'd rather just blitz through the routine and go; brush his teeth, deodorant, on the scale, off the scale, and get dressed in his sweats.

Still, he kept thinking about the dream. Spinning out of control, afraid, but so… He didn't even know how to describe it. Exhilarating?

"Kyoya?" He heard his mother call, and he took a deep breath before opening the bathroom door, shoulders tense. But rather than anything he thought, it was just his mother standing there, her silk dressing gown wrapped around her slender frame, a small smile on her face, "There you are, baby boy. Come on, you need some breakfast before you go. You've got a big day ahead of you, my little prince. My prima ballerina…"

He could feel his lips pull into a grimace but wiped it away as soon as he realised. His own smile was shy in return, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders bunched. It really didn't help the stiffness that ran through his bones.

"Coming mum…"


End file.
